Aways Look on the Bright Side of Death
by Zeragii
Summary: It is a sad time in the Hekawi camp. Captain Parmenter, Sergeant O'Rourke, and Corporal Agarn attend and think back to the first times they met Chief Wild Eagle.
1. The Funeral

**I do not own any F Troop characters. **

**Please do not be offended by the term "Indian", "Red-skin", or any other terms. I am not trying to offend anyone, I'm just using the terms used during that time period. I have great respect for Native Americans, and have some friends who are. Thanks!**

**...**

The sad, little gathering stood in the dusty soil. The sky was grey; the clouds dark and close to the earth. It hadn't rained for some time, and the rigid grass, dry and brittle, would crunch when trodden down. The stormy weather that the stale wind predicted was badly needed.

The emotions of the little group that stood, heads bowed, eyes settled on the dehydrated earth, were just about as dismal as the atmosphere above them.

Corporal Agarn sat on a log between Sergeant O'Rourke and Captain Parmenter. Their blue, yellow-trimmed uniforms stood out awkwardly amongst the cluster of animal skin clad Native Americans. All was silent; solemn as night. Every so often, the soft 'ching' of the fort Captain's spurs would sound as he shifted uncomfortably, and a series of red-skinned scowls would be briefly shot in their general direction. Parmenter would apologize each time, and then the quiet would resume.

Agarn watched as a passing tumbleweed collided with his boot, stopping its journey across the dry, dreary landscape. He gave it a gentle tap and it continued on its way, bouncing and leaping until it was out of sight. The Hekawi village was still and quiet.

The pale, leathery flap to a near-bye tee-pee was drawn back slowly, and with a swish of feathery regalia, Crazy Cat appeared. He was adorned with his usual checkered white and red shirt, but the added trinkets and baubles gave him a more majestic air. A colored skin wrap was draped around his shoulders, paint was drawn ceremoniously upon his brow, and, atop his head, an enormous mass of feathers, leather straps, and charms was perched. It all made the short Indian look unflatteringly fat, his face barely visible beneath the cumbersome headdress.

With all the grace he could manage beneath the staggering weight, Crazy Cat made his way to the front of the solemn gathering. The three soldiers quickly rose to their feet as the Hekawi residents stood, giving their new chief their full attention.

Crazy Cat stood silent and still for a moment, letting his eyes wander slowly across the assembly. They came to rest on the three soldiers. Parmenter tipped his hat, and the Indian nodded in greeting.

Turning to a rather heavy set Hakawi brave at his side, all Crazy Cat's impressive appearance was extinguished as his comical voice broke the silence.

"Smokey Bear, give me speech."

The Indian in question stuck his hand within the folds of his garments and produced a neatly folded parchment. He handed it to Crazy Cat with reverent respect. Carefully, the new chief opened the paper and held it out in front of him. After bringing it toward his face and away, like a man who needs a new set of bifocals, he began:

"Four score and seven years ago..." he stopped, with the picture of utter distaste plastered on his pudgy face."What kind of speech this!?" he demanded sourly, crumbling up the document and tossing it over his shoulder. The wind took it up and it disappeared, bouncing and leaping. _Just like the tumbleweed_, Agarn couldn't help thinking.

"No one ever remember speech like that!" Crazy Cat huffed, taking out another paper, this time from beneath his own drapery. "Mine much better."

He cleared his voice loudly, performed the trombone-like motion as before, and then began.

"We gathered here today to pay tribute to mighty chief. He was very mighty, though not as mighty as I be in future... _Ahem..._ It a sad thing to loose chief, but do not be sad-"

As Crazy Cat's voice entered into what everyone knew would be a long and tedious tirade, several minds began to wander. They thought back to the days when had they first met chief Wild Eagle, the great Hekawi leader...


	2. O'Rourke's Memories Part One

Sergeant Morgan Sylvester O'Rourke carefully stepped down from the stagecoach onto the dusty street. It wasn't much of a town. Small, isolated from the rest of the world, it's only reason to exist was to slightly populate the ground that surrounded Fort Courage. Morgan could see the fort's log gate and walls from where he now stood, just in front of the town's saloon. Morgan gave the saloon a quick glance, telling himself to give the place a visit later. But right now he had work to do. In his right hand he clutched a few papers, one being his credentials, the other his orders of transfer. Deciding he had stood looking the fort over long enough, the sergeant quickly strode toward the open gates. He was stopped at the entrance by a soldier standing guard, who checked his papers and then let him inside.

The inside of the fort was perfectly ordinary. The raked dirt and dust was devoid of rocks, billowing into the air when anyone trumped through the loose, dry soil. An American flag waved proudly on the top of a pole in the middle of the grounds. There were also multiple buildings, just like any other fort Morgan had ever seen, including the men's barracks, officers barracks, the mess, as well as stables and the commanding officer's building that was indicated with a sign over the door reading 'headquarters'. Their was a watch tower, parapets, and one lone cannon, completing the typical scene.

Heading up to the door of the headquarters, Morgan paused to straighten his uniform, before giving three smart raps to the wooden door. There was a moments silence, followed by a gruff voice.

"Come!"

Obliging, Morgan quickly entered, closed the door, and stepped up to a desk where the captain sat, and gave a proper salute.

"Sergeant Morgan O'Rourke reporting for duty, Sir!" he rattled out quickly, in perfect military form. He waited until the man behind the desk returned the salute before handing his papers over to the captain.

While the commanding officer looked over his orders and credentials, Morgan took a better look at his new superior. He was a heavyset man, with graying hair and a thick, push-broom mustache. His uniform was flawless, buttoned all the way up, causing his multiple chins to fold in a most unflattering way. His desk was littered with paper, granted they were in neat piles. A small plaque on the desk read: Captain Charles Bellsington.

"Very good, Sergeant," came the gruff voice once more, and Morgan snapped back to full attention. "You served in the Mexican-American War I see."

"Yes, Sir," Morgan replied briskly.

"Very good, very good," the captain repeated, giving the papers a final glance before handing them back to the sergeant. "So your one of Denald's boys, eh?" he chuckled. He reached out his hand. "Captain Bellsington, Charles Bellsington. Welcome to Fort Courage, Sergeant."

Morgan shook the hand warmly, before standing back at full attention. The captain gave him an amused look as he settled back in his chair lacing his fingers together in front of him.

"At ease, Sergeant, before you strain something!" he laughed. He quickly became more serious. "You are a much needed addition to my fort, Sergeant. I could use a competent, honest second-in-command around here."

"Begging the Captain's pardon," Morgan began, "But I was informed I was replacing Fort Courage's preexisting sergeant."

"And that is true!" The captain exclaimed, slapping his hand on the top of his desk. "You are to replace that rogue of a soldier, Sergeant Kevin Manfield."

"I take it he did something wrong," Morgan said, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Something wrong!" the captain practically yelled. "I'll say he did! He's a lazy, good for nothing bum! All he does is visit the saloon, flittering amongst the women folk. Mark my words, no good ever comes of such a man!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good," Captain Bellsington said, regaining his composer, "I'm glad we see eye to eye. Go and bring your things to the officer's barracks. You'll have the place all to yourself."

"To myself, Sir?" the sergeant asked, puzzled.

"That's right. We haven't been sent a new corporal yet. Due to arrive in a few months, I'm sure."

"Yes, Sir."

"Very well, Sergeant," Bellsington said, gathering his paperwork and shuffling them distractedly, "I will expect you to begin your duties in the morning. In the mean time, get used to the place."

"Yes, Sir," Morgan saluted, before turning and heading for the door, "Thank you, Sir."

"Yes, yes," the captain waved, too buried in his work to give the sergeant any attention now that they had finished their meeting.

Morgan shut the door behind him, stepping out into the late afternoon air. The sky was just beginning to turn pink above the west wall of the fort. Fetching his luggage, which someone had been kind enough to set near-bye, the sergeant headed over to the officer's barracks. It was a small room, with two bunks. It was a pleasant place, with a window in the front looking out toward the center of the fort. Taking the farthest bed from the door, Morgan soon unloaded and found a place for all his belongings, which wasn't much. By the time he had finished, the pink sky had turned to a deep purple, and a few stars began to appear in the east.

Taking a quick glance around, Morgan decided he'd like to check out the buildings outside the fort. Specifically the saloon.

_But_ _I_ _mustn't let the Captain see_ me, he thought to himself. But he figured a man with such a dislike of saloons, would probably never set foot in one. So, after giving a quick peek to make sure the captain was still in his office, the new sergeant strolled out the fort and into town.

The village was pretty quiet, the only sound being that of someone playing a piano in the saloon, as well as laughs and light chatter. Giving one last glance around, Morgan straightened his uniform and climbed the few steps and swung through the swinging doors into the saloon.

Their weren't many people in the place, maybe twelve or fifteen. Some were playing cards in the corner, while a few others talked to the waitresses.

One man, big and mean-looking, leaned against the bar with a glass of whisky in his hand. He eyed Morgan as he came in and walked up to the bar beside him.

Morgan O'Rourke wasn't a drinking man, but every once in a while he'd get something, usually a small shot of whisky. A very small shot. Morgan gave the bartender his order and then turned to the large man beside him, hoping for conversation.

"Well howdy," he began, in a friendly voice, "I'm new 'round h-"

"You're the new sergeant?" the man's tight voice interrupted.

Morgan blinked. "Yes."

"Where you from?"

"Steubenville, Ohio," Morgan replied proudly.

The man snorted in what sounded to Morgan like contempt. The new sergeant's hackles rose on the back of his neck. "You got a problem with my hometown?" he said stiffly.

"No," the man said, downing the rest of his drink and slamming the glass cup down onto the wooden bar table. He turned to face Morgan for the first time, poking Morgan O'Rourke in the chest with each word he spoke. "I've got a problem with you."

Standing his ground, the new sergeant somehow managed to keep his temper. It would not look good to get into a fight in a saloon his first night at Fort Courage. The other guests in the place had stopped what they were doing to watch nervously as Morgan stood to his full height. Even though he was considered a fairly tall man, the other was a good head taller then Morgan.

"And why," Morgan said through clenched teeth, "is that?"

The large brute smirked nastily, removing his finger from O'Rourke's uniform, and turning it to himself. "I'm the man you're here to replace."

Just my luck. Morgan succeeded in not letting his surprise show. "Kevin Manfield, I presume."

Manfield bowed mockingly. "At your service." The bartender set down Morgan's drink but Manfield grabbed it before the new sergeant could. He held it up, inspecting it slowly. "So, the Old Man replaced me with a small town farmer's boy." He chuckled, slurping down Morgan's whisky. He looked at the empty glass before slamming it down next to his own. "They replaced me with a country bumpkin."

"Is that so!" Morgan exploded, unable to keep his temper any longer. "Well, this _country_ _bumpkin_ has seen more action then you'll ever see! I was in the Mexican-American War!"

"Oh, but fighting Mexicans so very different than tangle'n with Indians," Manfield said coolly. "Tell me, little man, have you ever fought an Indian?" He leaned back, smirking at the enraged sergeant.

To tell the truth, Morgan O'Rourke had never fought an Indian in his life. But to admit that now would be terribly embarrassing. And so, the sergeant did what came natural to him in a situation like this: Morgan O'Rourke lied.

"'Course I have," he said angrily.

"Really?" Manfield countered, feigning interest, "Do tell."

"I defeated six Indians, alone. With only my bare hands!"

_Now_ _you've_ _done_ _it_, his mind groaned. He'd overdone it, that was for sure. No one would ever believe that whopper.

Manfield's smile grew. "You don't say?"

_No_ _point_ _backing_ _down_ _now_. "That's right!"

The big man towered over Morgan, still smiling. He wasn't a handsome man. "I don't believe you."

"Well, I did!" Morgan snorted, "Whether you believe me or not!"

"Prove it."

Morgan blinked. "Pardon?"

"I said prove it."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "And just how am I supposed to do that?!"

"Tomorrow afternoon you, me and my men will go find some Indians. We'll let you fight them all alone." Manfield smirked at the slight hesitation on Morgan's face. "Unless you're scared."

That was all Morgan needed. "You've got a deal!"

"Oh, so it's a bet?" Manfield took out his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. "Very well. If you do manage to fight six Indians single-handed, I'll leave this fort and it's crummy little town forever."

"And if I don't?" Morgan asked, slightly apprehensive to hear the answer.

"And if you lied to me, amusing the Indians haven't killed you..." He lit the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, drawing in and releasing a cloud of smoke into the saloon. He smiled. "Then I'll make you wish they had."

"That's a threat!"

Manfield shrugged. "So it is. See you tomorrow, mighty warrior." He threw some change onto the counter, and then left. Everyone's eyes were on his huge frame as it disappeared out the swinging doors.

Morgan turned to the bartender grumpily. "Another drink."

_What am I going to do now?_


	3. O'Rourke's Memories Part Two

"What have I gotten myself into!" Morgan hissed to himself angrily as he carefully picked his way through the underbrush. He had been wracking his brain all evening, even through supper, trying to come up with a plan.

"At Fort Courage only half a day and I'm already in trouble!"

After considering idea after idea, the only thing Morgan felt he could do was find some Indians and spy on them. Try and gauge their strength. He knew it was a fruitless endeavor, but he had to do something to ease his mind. So, he had crept out of the fort, and gone barreling into the forest.

It wasn't long before he spotted the glow of firelight through the trees, as well as low, steady beat of drums. Creeping closer, Morgan found it was an Indian camp. Natives of the American frontier milled about the fires and tee-pees, chanting or talking in a language Morgan couldn't understand. Watching them intently from the cover of a bush, Morgan sized up some of the more ominous-looking braves. They were tall and sturdy-looking. Muscles glistened in the firelight, and Morgan felt his heart sink. There was no way he could fight off six of these warriors single-handed. He was about to turn and leave, when a gravely voice spoke behind him.

"Me thought only our race have Sitting Bull."

Twirling sharply and drawing his gun, Morgan jumped to his feet. Their before him stood three Indians. The one closest to him jumped back when his eyes saw the pistol in the sergeant's hand, as did the braves behind him.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he cried holding his arms out in front of him for protection. "Hekawi not harm soldier of fort!"

Morgan stayed as he was, unsure if this was a trick. "You're lying!" he accused, "You're going to capture me and scalp me!"

The Indians turned pale. "We no scalp!" cried the spokesman of the three. He was adorned with many feathers and trinkets, and it occurred to Morgan this must be the chief.

"You're going to hold me ransom!"

"We no hold ransom!"

"You're going to kidnap me and make me your slave!"

"Noo!"

The chief looked truly upset. His beads rattled as he shook his head at each new suggested horror.

"Then what do you plan to do?" Morgan finally asked, fully confused and frustrated.

"Nothing!" The chief moaned. He gestured to the Native Americans who now surrounded the sergeant, nervously watching the man with his gun pointed at their leader. "Hekawi lovers, not fighters!"

Morgan lowered his gun. He glanced around at the frightened faces around him. His eyes fell on the muscular braves he had seen earlier. "If you're not fighters, how do they get so strong?"

The chief looked over at the braves in question, then turned back to Morgan. "They village champion canoe paddlers. Training make them strong."

Morgan held up his gun again. "You expect me to believe that?!"

The ring of Indians around him jumped back.

"Yes!" the chief grimaced, hands held above his head. "Come into camp. You see, we not fighters, we lovers!"

Still uncertain, Morgan paused. "Fine," he said slowly, "But don't try anything. I'm not putting my pistol away."

The chief nodded, and lead the way into his village.

It didn't take long for Morgan to realize that he had been very mistaken. In the whole village there was not one scalp, not one dead body, not any of the things the sergeant had been told you'd find in a hostile Indian camp. The few weapons that were there, he was told, were for hunting and fishing, and he saw no reason to disbelieve them. He was shown the blankets, baskets, beads, and other things the Hekawi tribe made as a living. Morgan realized with no small amount of embarrassment, that these Indians were _not_ fighters.

O'Rourke holstered his gun. He gave the chief an apologetic look. "Gee, I'm sorry about this whole thing, chief...?"

"Chief Wild Eagle, son of Crazy Horse, brother-in-law to Sitting Bull, and cousin of Geronimo."

Morgan held out his hand. "Nice to meet you Wild Eagle. Boy, you don't know how relieved I am that-" He broke off suddenly, an idea forming rapidly in his scheming brain. He snapped his fingers and gave a happy chuckle. The Hekawi gave him strange looks, but Morgan ignored them.

"Wild Eagle," he said excitedly, "What if I offered you a trade?"

The chief tilted his head slightly. "What kind of trade?"

"A favor for a favor. You see, Chief, I'm in a bit of trouble..."

...

The afternoon sun rose high into the sky, shining down at the men riding slowly through the forest. Kevin Manfield had kept his appointment, meeting Morgan at the saloon with three of his lackeys. Morgan had had to come up with an excuse to get away from the fort, but that hadn't been too difficult.

Manfield road on his horse in the front, with Morgan right behind him. Manfield's men followed on their own steeds behind Morgan, making the sergeant very uncomfortable. Manfield was all smug and confident, and Morgan let him be. In fact, he even fidgeted on purpose to make the large man think he was nervous. Of course, he wasn't. Everything was going to work out, thanks to his new allies. All he had to do was wait until-

Suddenly a fierce cry broke the quiet of the forest. An arrow buried itself in the saddlebag on Manfield's horse, and Morgan inwardly grinned with pleasure at the large man's frightened expression. Seven Indians launched themselves from the underbrush, yelling and screaming like they'd sat in a fire.

Manfield and his men quickly drew back, and Manfield's smirk returned as he called to the lone sergeant. "They're all yours, O'Rourke! Good luck, you're gonna need it!"

_Show_ _time_. Morgan jumped down from his horse and gave the beast a slap on the rump so that it would run a short distance, out of the way. Then he turned to face the attacking Indians.

They came at him left and right, each time the sergeant carefully, and expertly, sent them sprawling. _I_ _thought_ _I_ _told Wild_ _Eagle_ _to_ _send_ _six_ _braves_, Morgan pondered to himself. Oh, well, one more opponent would make it look even better when he won.

He dodged as one Indian came at him with a long spear. He jumped up, catching the brave in a head lock. "You guys are pretty good at this fake fighting," he whispered into the native's ear, "Keep it up." The Indian only growled in response.

This went on for several minutes, with the Indians attacking and Sergeant Morgan O'Rourke countering each and every attack. Finally, the braves had had enough, and in a whir of feathers and teeth, they were gone.

_Wait. Teeth?_

Morgan shrugged at the Hekawi brave's uncharacteristically barbaric regalia. They must have dressed for the part.

Morgan struck a dramatic pose as Manfield and his men came forward, jaws dropped in total shock. Manfield was speechless.

"I...I, you...that..." he could get the words out right.

Morgan smirked and crossed his arms in triumph. It was worth making a deal to become business partners with the Hekawi to see Manfield's face. "So Manfield," Morgan said in a tough voice, "Are ya gonna keep your word and leave town...or do I have to make you wish you had?" He pounded his fist into his palm to emphasis.

Snapping out of his shock, Manfield nodded a salute of respect and turned his horse to go. His men followed, and soon they were out of sight.

Morgan O'Rourke burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He bent way over and gripped his knees in an attempt to keep himself upright in his unashamed glee. He heard a rustle behind him. He turned to congratulate the Hekawi braves he knew were there.

And froze.

Six Indian braves stood huddled together watching him curiously. They looked absolutely pathetic. They looked more like circus performers than fiece warriors. They weren't even scary enough to frighten a baby! One stepped forward with a confused look on his face.

"You still want Hekawi to fight you?"

Morgan paled. If these were the Hekawi braves he'd asked for...who were...

_Oh, boy..._

...

"Listen, Chief, I'm still going to keep my end of the deal with you."

Wild Eagle looked surprised. "But Hekawi braves miss fight."

"Yes," Morgan agreed, "But they were willing to do it and that's all that matters now. So I will organize my business and your people will make the merchandise. I'll come by once in a while to collect the stuff, sell it and we'll spit the profit. Sound good?"

"Wise Old Indian say," Wild Eagle began, grandly, "he who hunts turtles in light of full moon be smarter then all the leaves of a tree." The chief gazed into the distance as if soaking in the pure wisdom of the words.

Morgan gave the chief a confused look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The Hekawi leader looked at him with frustration. "Me don't know, but sounds good."

Morgan chuckled and held out his hand.

There, in the quiet village of the Hekawi, the O'Rourke Enterprises was born, as Sergeant O'Rourke shook hands with Chief Wild Eagle.


	4. Agarn's Memories Part One

Corporal Randolph Agarn dutifully walked down the dwindling line of soldiers standing stiffly at attention. He checked a few rifles, pointed out a few missing buttons, or gave a small bit of praise where it was due. Then, when he had finished, he went over to the place where Captain Bellsington and Sergeant O'Rourke were standing.

Randolph saluted, awaiting both superior officer's return gesture. It was given, and the Corporal dropped his hand to his side and gave his report.

"Two more men are unaccounted for, Captain," he said, reluctantly.

O'Rourke shook his head. "That's five desertions this month."

Captain Bellsington gave an exasperated sigh, running a hand over his tired face. The captain looked exhausted. Large, unflattering bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. His hair often looked untidy these days, and the man continually held an air of anxiety.

Randolph thought back to when he'd first arrived at Fort Courage, nearly a year before. Captain Bellsington had appeared to be a fairly laid back, organized fellow. Strict and by the book, having won awards for his exemplary work as a fort commander. Randolph had never cared much for that type of officer, but even he felt a slight twinge of sympathy at the sight of the man before him.

Strange things always seemed to happen at Fort Courage. Incidents, accidents, near catastrophes, desertions and thefts were an everyday occurrence. No wonder Captain Bellsington looked so stressed. The fact that the Union had just entered a war with the South did little to ease the tension.

"Dismiss the men, Corporal," he said wearily, "I'll be in my office, should anyone need me." With that he saluted once again and then marched off in the direction of the fort's headquarters.

Randolph glanced at the sergeant, before turning to the assembled men and giving a loud, unintelligible shout.

"Aaaaa-aaahh!"

The men dispersed, leaving the two officers alone.

"Gee, Sarge," Randolph began, "Two more desertions. If this keeps up, there won't be a man left in Fort Courage."

O'Rourke seemed unconcerned. "Eh, I highly doubt that, Agarn." He began walking toward a shack in the corner of the fort. "There are plenty of men who are just as happy here as anywhere else."

"I suppose," Randolph replied, following his friend and superior officer. They came to the shack and the sergeant fished a ring of keys from his belt, searching through them to find the one he wanted.

Randolph gave the door a curious glance. Ever since he had arrived at the fort, the sergeant had forbidden him entrance to the small enclosure. Why, he wouldn't say.

O'Rourke gave Randolph a look, indicating that he wanted him to leave. The short man immediately broke out in protest.

"Oh, come on, Sarge!" he whined.

"No, Agarn."

"But, Sarge, that's the ranking officer's storage! It's half mine!"

"And I out rank you and I say you can't," O'Rourke said impatiently, hearing a satisfying click as the key unlocked the door. He hooked the keys back on his belt and was about to go in, but the corporal wasn't finished.

"It's not like I don't know what you're doing, Sarge," Randolph said, putting his hands on his hips and looking rather smug. The smugness left immediately, however, when the sergeant let go of the door knob and spun to face him with a look of genuine mixture of anger and fear on his face.

"And what," he said warily, "do you mean by that?

Randolph hadn't expected that kind of reaction from his friend. "I-I just mean," he stuttered nervously, "That i-it's obvious to m-me that your up t-to something, S-Sarge!"

O'Rourke narrowed his eyes slightly. His voice was still gruff, but it didn't sound angry anymore. "And what do you think I'm up to?"

Randolph winced, almost afraid to answer. "S-some sort of undercover market?"

The look of surprise on the sergeant's face confirmed to Randolph that he had been correct.

"How...?"

"Oh, don't worry, Sarge," the corporal said quickly, "Your secrets safe with me!"

"Oh, yeah?" O'Rourke said, inwardly kicking himself for any clues he might have left for the corporal.

Randolph nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, Sir!"

"And why would you keep something like this under your hat?"

A coy smile spread across the corporal's face. "Because, I'd like to join ya, Sarge!"

That made the sergeant blink. He looked at Randolph thoughtfully. Agarn had only been at Fort Courage for a little less then a year. He and O'Rourke had become fast friends, sharing many adventures. O'Rourke had even saved the corporal's life. Twice.

Agarn was confrontational in nature. He met anything the world through at him with hostile energy. However, he wasn't a terribly brave man, nor was he terribly brilliant, but O'Rourke had become very fond of having the corporal around. He knew Agarn could be trusted.

_And_ _I_ _do need help managing O'Rourke Enterprises_, the sergeant thought to himself.

O'Rourke chuckled. "Not as honest as I thought you were, are you, Agarn?"

"Well, I'm no criminal, Sarge," Randolph grinned, "but I don't mind bending the rules a bit for a little opportunity."

Not unlike O'Rourke himself. The sergeant stood looking at him a moment more before slowly extending his hand, a smile plastered on his face. "Agarn, I don't know why everyone says you're so dumb! Welcome to the business!"

Randolph shook it readily. His attention again focused on the door. O'Rourke chuckled as he took hold of the handle once more and, signaling the corporal to follow, quickly slipped inside.

Randolph's eyes widened as the took in the sight. The shack was packed, no _crammed_ with souvenirs: blankets, baskets, bows and arrows, candy, tomahawks, liquor, and a whole slue of things he couldn't identify. They were stacked, stored, stashed, hung, and precariously balancing all around him. Randolph had expected the shack to be hiding merchandise, but never had he imagined the sergeant to be so well stocked up. Randolph stood with his mouth open, awe and shock leaving him speechless.

O'Rourke chuckled again, closed the door, and proceeded to show the young corporal around. Agarn watched, poked, prodded, and listened with reverence. He took in every detail, as if his life depended on it.

It was obvious to O'Rourke how excited, and not to mention honored, Agarn was that his sergeant was willing to let him in on so important a secret. The corporal gently touched a red and black woven blanket, sliding the warm material through his fingers.

"Sarge, where do you get all this stuff?" he asked, still eyeing the blanket. It looked like it was hand-crafted.

"I'm glad you asked," O'Rourke said with a grin. "I have a rather unusual contact. Partners who supply me with the merchandise, and they get a percentage of the profits."

"Who?"

"Well, they are..." the sergeant paused. "Maybe I'd better just show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes," O'Rourke said, more to himself then the corporal. "It might be a bad idea to talk about it, even in here. Never know who might be listening." He took the keys from his belt and headed toward the door. Randolph followed closely. "I'll bring you to meet them tonight."

He and Randolph stepped outside with the sergeant quickly closing the door behind them.

O'Rourke locked it and latched the keys back on his belt. "After everyone's asleep."

...

The night was cool, and a gentle summer breeze blew the mane of Randolph's horse. The smell of flowers and grass mixed with the damp scent of dew, and the sound of countless crickets chirped like an orchestra of tiny violins. The stars above shown brightly, though there was no moon, lighting the earth below the best they could.

In front of Randolph he could just make out the dark shape of his sergeant, riding his own horse through the damp underbrush.

It had been fairly easy to get out of the fort, which surprised Randolph, seeing as it was always well guarded. O'Rourke, however, had long since mastered the art of sneaking wherever he desired to go, as well as the perfect times to do it. He had left, leading a very nervous Agarn, out the front gates at 12:00 sharp. Right through the front gates! Randolph had almost had a heart attack when he glanced up and saw the guard looking down at them. He was squinting badly, a pair of small, round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. O'Rourke had made a few creature calls, and the guard turned back to his watch as if two soldiers sneaking out of a fort at night was nothing out of the ordinary.

When asked about it, O'Rourke simply shrugged and chuckled about someone named 'Vanderbilt' and muttered something about 'being as blind as a bat'. Randolph wasn't sure exactly what he meant, but had a vague memory that one of F Troop's men was named Vanderbilt. Despite having worked at the fort for close to a year, Agarn had not quite familiarized himself personally with each and every man. He shrugged it off and continued to follow his sergeant.

Randolph had never cared much for horses. They made him nervous, and from how horses acted around him, it was a common belief that Agarn made the horses feel the same way. The corporal sat stiffly, wishing very much that they had walked instead. They had been traveling for a while now, through the otherwise quiet forest, keeping a watchful eye out for any possible trouble.

Randolph's eyelids began to droop. He glared around him through the darkness, doing his best to stay awake. As curious as he was to meet his new 'partners' he would have much preferred to be in bed at the moment. His back was getting sore, and his legs felt stiff. Meanwhile, the symphony of crickets and peepers threatened to slowly lull him to sleep.

Randolph jumped with a start when his forehead, which head been slowly falling forward, bumped against the neck of his steed. Realizing he had begun to doze, he shook his head to try and vanquish the feelings of sleepiness from his mind.

"Are we almost there, Sarge," he asked with a yawn, hoping conversation would help keep him alert. He was disappointed when all he received in return was silence. He looked ahead of him, seeing nothing but darkness, he began to feel uneasy.

"Sarge?"

Silence again. Panic began to rise.

"Sarge?!"

This time he thought he head something. Carefully dismounting he headed in that direction, leading his horse by the reigns.

"Come on, Sarge. You know how jumpy I am. Stop fooling around. You never know what you could run into out h-"

He broke off abruptly when he ran smack into something tall. It couldn't be a tree, he decided, holding out a hand to feel, to his surprise, fabric. Fear suddenly gripped the corporal's heart as he slowly looked up. In the faint starlight he could just make out the imposing silhouette of a figure draped in skins and feathers. Bright eyes starred down at him, and Randolph knew that his was _not_ the sergeant.


End file.
